Gilgalad Was an Elven King
by Rose G
Summary: Elrond listens to Imladris celebrating a year since the Last Alliance and remembers his king; in words, thoughts and a song
1. 1

Gil - Galad was an Elven King

Rose G

Disclaimer - All settings and characters are the property of JRR Tolkien; I have made no money from their use

Elrond sat by the window in the Hall of Fire, legs drawn up to his chest, hugging his knees. The evening sun drenched his face, the warmth of it somehow stronger since he had worn Vilya. Feelings had been stronger too, friendship deeper, grief harsher and more piecing, pain more crippling. He couldn't recall having felt anything else since then.

_The sun should have risen for you, Ereinion, son of kings. You should stand here in my Halls, see me as Lord in my own right. My father's star that you were named for should have shone on us both, on Middle- Earth free of all fear. Why did you not share in our victory?_

A door slammed, footsteps rung on the stone floor. _I said I was not to be disturbed here; do they not remember? _He looked around, half expecting to see the one that he thought of standing there.

'My Lord.' Glorfindel nodded his respect and walked into the chamber, stopping when he stood next to the Half-Elf, gazing into the forest. 'They said you were here.'

'Aye.'

'You would rather not be here then, I take it?'

'How well you know me.' Elrond laughed sardonically, a forced sound. 'His grave is far away but Imladris needs her Lord here until all is settled.'

'I have run kingdoms before, Lord Elrond. I would have coped.'

' _"Before the fall of mighty kings in Nargothrond and Gondolin_

_Who now beyond the Western seas have passed away"_

That was long ago, Glorfindel.'

'What does time matter, Elrond?'

'Time destroys all. Your city, my brother, my king. If time had not passed, I would have still served Ereinion.'

'Time heals all griefs, my Lord, and mends all scars.'

'And one year only is too short for the first and too long for the second! If I stilll hurt, I would not feel that I had betrayed him. Why should he not be here to share this day with us?'

'Because, if he had lived, you would not have come here. Imladris would be another just settled valley, bare in winter, green in summer, not a haven. Those refugees you house would be nowhere, I would still be wandering. Or maybe, without your healing, I would have died. If your king had lived, you would have had none of this. Does that not help?'

Elrond's voice thickened. 'No, it does not.'_ Nothing I value now is equal to how much I valued his life._

'No, I did not think it would. But the Alliance was a victory; his army won. There can hardly be a finer way to die.'

'There is no fine way to die!' His pain was evident in his voice, on his face. The dark braids swung as he turned away from Glorfindel, to look into his room and ignore the stinging pain in his eyes. 'He died in agony, Glorfindel. He screamed and screamed... have you ever listened to someone die in torment? He lay in my arms as he died. I thought I would die there with him. Do you know what that is like?'

'Yes, Elrond. You forget who I am.' He spoke kindly; aware of how Elrond felt, wondering if it would help to recount his own experience of death.

'One year, one year - I remember everything of that day. There was no time for grief then, as Sauron still lived. And later, when it was over, I buried him myself. Isildur had left...'

Glorfindel could see it too clearly. A battleground, dead Men and Elves and Orcs. Flags flying, swords laying broken, a spear shattered on the slopes of Mount Doom. The remments of two armies, the greatest ever raised, and in the shadows, Elrond burying his king. Then a lonely, wounded figure, hair and robes flying, walking through the twilight. Too proud to weep, too hurt to trust.

'There has been no time for grief since, has there?'

'I do not need to remember him, or grieve for him, Glorfindel. I need to rule Imladris.'

'Yes, you do. And you need to feel. Will you not listen to me? My family, my home are gone - I know what you feel.'

'No, you don't, else you would have left me alone on today of all days. One day is all I ask.'

'You do not have to be alone to grieve. Remembering - that can be telling of what he was like, talking about him.'

Elrond shut his eyes, swallowed hard. 'I cannot.'

'May I sit down?' Without waiting, he sat next to Elrond.

'If you must. First you say I should grieve and then you stay here so I cannot.'

'You have been alone ever since that day; it hasn't helped. Share some of it, some of the pain.'

'You never knew him. He was my king, mine. You could never understand what I felt for him, not when you missed the Alliance, and all of his life.'

'You're letting his memory go. The others will forget him.'

'He will never be forgotten while I live.' Elrond made a show of rubbing his eyes; Glorfindel could see the tears marking his face. 'Ever.'

Glorfindel sighed, fell silent for a while. 'They are feasting at moonrise; one year since Sauron fell. They will expect to see their lord tonight. Will you come?'

'He died as evening fell. A year ago today, I made my dinner of cold roots and as I eat, his blood was still on my hands. How can I feast tonight?'

'There will be music and dancing as well. Believe me, it will help to hear life and laughter again.'

Elrond shook his head, more silent tears staining his face. He wiped them away on pretence of tiredness.

Glorfindel stood, went to lay his hand on Elrond's shoulder and decided against it. He stood at the door briefly, looked back at the crouched figure on the chair, black against the glorious sunset over the woods and tried one last plea. 'If you do come to the feast tonight, Elrond, please wear something over then black robes of mourning.'

The whispered reply barely reached him. 'Dead is what I feel. Dead is what I am.'


	2. 2

The scents of the feast reached Elrond in his room, meat and fruit and warm breads. Unconsciously, he leant towards his fire, trying to find some of the warmth of friendship that would be in the Great Hall now. The flames lept and crackled around his hands, as different from the flames of Mount Doom as could be.

Dimly, he heard the sounds of feasting and then glasses clinking, Glorfindel's voice 'To Gil-Galad the High King!' and then a brief silence. _After he arrived, he asked me who Erenion was... Gil-Galad, I told him. Gil-Galad was the high king... _a melody formed in his mind, unbearably sad and full of longing for someone who had passed away. Elrond's breath caught as he began to write the words down, taking some of them from an Ages old lay that Ereinion had taught him, and changing them for his king.

Eventually, he looked over at the words of his lament, at his own neat Tengwar script marked with tears. Ereinion looked odd written down; Elrond could not remember when, or indeed if, he'd ever seen that name inscribed. 'Ereinion was an Elven king,' he recited softly and his voice wavered on the name so that he knew he would never be able to sing it.

'Gil-Galad' was less painful, less intimatly bound up with the person Elrond had known and more a name for the brightly robed and smiling king of Mithlond standing before his people. The words looked blander once he'd read them through aloud, an insuffiecient attempt to express what he felt but the truth was that he had no more to give. _He would want me to live. And living means laughing, even though I can't remember doing so since his death. Actually, I cannot remember anything since then. All my time has been spent in grief and mourning, hasn't it?_

Alone in his room, Elrond finally thought for a moment that he would be able to weep but stubborness overcame that. _Glorfindel said that they expected me; I cannot fail them. Ereinion never failed his people. _A treacherous thought said 'Until he died,' and that sheer physical pain of realisation almost drove him to his knees. Gil-Galad, his king, his leader, his _friend, _had failed his people by not coming home; he, Elrond, Lord of Imladris, would not repeat that mistake.

A dark shape moving around a pitch black room, Elrond garbed himself in a black robe and pulled a beaten silver circlet onto his raven hair. There was no colour in him except for a spark in his blue eyes, a gathering of defiance and courage.

Glorfindel half smiled as his Lord entered; the blonde haired elf easy to see at one end of the long table amongst the darker featured elves of Rivendell and the local area. The meal was just over; wine and miroveur were being served, and soon the music would begin. With firelight and candlelight reflecting off of silver and dark polished wood, and the silver moonlight flooding through the windows, the place was a refuge, a blessed haven from the outside world. The last echoes of mirth died away as the elves became aware of the grief etched on Elrond's face.

Erestor stood, ushering Elrond to his seat at the head of the table but did not speak to him. Instead, it was Glorfindel who asked Elrond if he wanted to eat and grasped his hand for support as the half-elf winced at the curious faces turning to look at him.

In silence, like the personification of sorrow, Elrond listened to the first few songs - stories of the glory of Numenor, the ancient hymn to Elbereth and the tale of Beren and Luthien that made him wonder if he would ever know a love like that. That thought was a spur to him and he stood after the lay had come to an end. 'I appreciate that this is a joyful occasion, a time for celebration and yet I would beg leave to sing of a tradegy. For some of you, those who have lost brothers and fathers and sons that night, it is not such a tradegy. For Glorfindel, it is merely a tale of people he never knew. It is my tradegy.'

They were attentive now. Elrond rarely sung and even more rarely spoke of his grief. In the firelight and the black robe, he looked like a wraith; an image that was only belied by his face and the raw pain there.

'Do you have a tune, Lord Elrond?' That was Landir, the harper.

'No.'

'Very well.' Landir inclined his head and laid his instrument down.

Elrond looked around, catching Glorfindel's sapphire gaze and then staring blankly ahead. He began to sing, his voice a deep, throbbing baritone that spoke of pain and loss, his only accompiament the crackling fire. Eru's creation seemed to pause to listen to him.

_'Gil-Galad was an Elven king,_

_Of him the harpers sadly sing._

_The last whose realm was fair and free,_

_Between the mountains and the sea.'_

_My king, my friend. _His eyes stung.

_'His spear was strong,_

_His lance was keen._

_The shining stars of midnight's field_

_Were mirrored in his silver shield.'_

Tears were streaming down his face now, choking him, but he faced them and still sung.

_'But to war, he rode away,_

_And where he dwelleth, none can say;_

_For in battle's midst, Starlight fell_

_In Mordor, where shadows are.'_

His voice wavered on the name and he shook his head. 'There is more,' and he spread the parchment sheaf in his hand, 'but I cannot sing the rest.'

It was Glorfindel who stood first, his golden hair catching the firelight as he moved, and then Erestor. Then all the Elves of Rivendell were standing in a silent tribute to their Lord and his King.

Elrond's eyes shone, but his love for his people rather than tears now. He raised his goblet, echoed Glorfindel's toast that he had heard from his chambers. 'To Gil-Galad, the Elven King!'

'Gil-Galad!' the massed voices responded, an echo of Elrond's tune in the words.

**A/N - Obviously, the words to the song would have changed slightly over time, before Aragorn leant it.**


End file.
